Sex, Drugs, Love, and Violins
by Noise And Hammers
Summary: A collection of stories regarding the private lives of John and Sherlock.  Other characters will pop up.  More summary inside.  Rated for future drug use, sexual content, all that good stuff.  I regret nothing.
1. To Each His Own

NOTE: Decided to make on neat and tidy place for all my Sherlock plot bunnies. Updates will be sporadic. Open to requests.

This first installment will be a follow up to _Always Something_, since I have gotten a request for a "sequel" of sorts. Therefore, please refer to _Of All Things_ and _Always Something_ if you're confused. Otherwise, most of these stories will stand alone.

**Info:**

**Length: **1160

**Pairing:** Johnlock

**Notable Content: **Catalyst fluff for softcore naughtiness.

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><p><span>TO EACH HIS OWN<span>

John was salvaging what pieces of unburnt popcorn he could fish out of the bowl. The television gleamed in the dim light of the flat, and John's eyes were fixed on it, his otherwise unoccupied hand absently stroking Rory's purring body, which was tucked neatly between his leg and his flat mate's. The aforementioned flat mate was slouching shamelessly on the couch, fondling his hedgehog, who was curled into a rather adorable ball on his chest.

"See?" John said, giving up on the popcorn and putting it on the floor. He nodded to the screen as he picked Rory up and set him on his lap. "That's why you're Spock."

"Hmf," was the detective's reply. They had taken to a night in, lounging on the couch and watching _Star Trek_, after solving a particularly exhausting case about a man who had "misplaced" one of his kidneys. Obviously, it was not so, but then again who was to know that? Nevertheless, the case required much traveling and leg work, and while John was used to going long distances without a moment's rest, the snow was slightly foreign to him as they had trekked across frozen landscape. John had wondered why the man in question had chosen to live so remotely, but of course, this didn't stop Sherlock from dragging his friend along the entire estate, searching for a dog who apparently had had the missing kidney transplanted into it.

"Bizarre," John mused, remembering the case. Sherlock looked at him.

"What?"

"The case you just solved. It was bizarre."

Sherlock shrugged, assisting Rosin as the animal scurried up his chest to nuzzle itself in the crook of his neck.

"It was interesting," he replied. Rosin chirped, and Sherlock smiled warmly as he stroked him with a finger. John chuckled and turned to Sherlock.

"Why'd you choose a hedgehog?" he asked, smiling dumbly at the beady eyed ball. Sherlock picked the animal up and held it in his palm, his thumb lightly petting its side.

"Drawn to it," he said with yet another shrug. John smiled as Rory leapt off his lap and landed in the popcorn bowl, licking at the remaining pieces.

"I'd half expected you to get a snake or a lizard or something," John said, leaning back and stretching out his arms along the back of the couch. "But to his each his own."

Sherlock noted how great John's rather toned body looked in just sweatpants and an Army PT shirt. He let his eyes inspect the other man, hungrily drinking in every detail. His arms had creases where his biceps were toned and structured, his jaw was firm and set. The olive green shirt was just a bit tight, and it accentuated John's now slightly bulging pectorals and flat belly, rippled with shy muscle. There was a small stripe of flesh where the shirt lifted, and a sandy blond trail of hair could be seen, leading coyly into John's pants. His pants, though baggy and ill-fitting, lay nicely draped over John's stocky legs. Sherlock chewed his bottom lip. They'd seen each other naked before - admittedly John had seen more of Sherlock, since clothes were "an obstacle that should only be donned when absolutely necessary" - and Sherlock had more than once become alarmingly acquainted with the fact that John was definitely always packing quite the...pistol.

John looked at him curiously.

"Problem?" he asked, looking down at himself. Sherlock blinked.

"No," he said, looking back at the TV. "Just observing."

John sighed, looking at the hedgehog in Sherlock's palm.

"He looks like me sort of," John said sheepishly. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him.

"Pardon?"

John plucked the hedgehog from Sherlock's hand.

"Rosin," he said. "He looked like me."

Sherlock scoffed.

"Don't be delusional, John Watson."

"I'm serious, look."

John held the bewildered animal close to his face. Sherlock had to admit, John had very...hedgehog-like qualities. Despite his rather athletic features, John's slightly upturned nose, dark blue eyes, dirty blond hair, and otherwise tiny stature, really did make him somewhat akin to Rosin. Sherlock flushed.

_Adorable._

"See?" John chuckled, touching his nose to Rosin's. Rosin squirmed, blinked, and sneezed. John laughed and plopped Rosin back into Sherlock's lap. "Gotta admit, I'm glad you got him. He's pretty adorable."

"Yes," Sherlock said, clearing his throat and looking down at a seemingly smiling Rosin. Rory, probably feeling neglected, jumped up into John's lap once again, and mewed, nudging John's hand. John stroked him long, and cocked his head at Sherlock.

"What is it?" he asked. Sherlock swallowed, looking at John with eyes aglow. John took a moment to marvel at how beautiful the other man looked in just a white t-shirt and loose fitting boxer shorts. John let his eyes wander curiously, tracing Sherlock's every detail. The t-shirt clung to his thin torso in all the right places, the v-neck revealing Sherlock's neckline expertly, the milky skin beneath the off white peaking with shameless cleavage. The boxers, a blue and green plaid, sat snug at Sherlock's waistline, hugging his nearly girlish curves. His legs, God damn, were beautifully long and slinky, with just barely noticeable ginger brown hair that darkened just a bit as John's eyes traveled up towards Sherlock's inner thighs, into the cave of his boxer shorts. John had nearly become used to seeing his flat mate naked, as Sherlock insisted that clothing was "an obstacle that should only be donned when absolutely necessary," and John had some what forcibly taken note that the detective was truly gifted in his head...top and bottom.

"John?" Sherlock said. John shook his head and looked into Sherlock's steely bright eyes.

"Hm?"

The detective leaned in and in just a moment, their lips were locked together in a hungry, long-awaited kiss. The animals on either man's respective laps were flabbergasted, and Rory leapt off John's legs, Rosin scurrying after him. The two fluffy creatures watched from across the room, Rory sitting on the arm of John's chair, and Rosin cautiously peaking over the arm of Sherlock's, as the two men entangled fingers in hair, twisted legs, bruised and nipped at lips and necks, spiraled out of clothes, and conquered each other's bodies.

Rory looked at Rosin, who was gripping the leather chair, trying to hoist his plump body up, and then back at the two on the couch.

"Wait," John said, panting over a very flushed, very messy looking Sherlock beneath him.

"What?" Sherlock said almost irritably.

"Let's not do this here," John said. He glanced over at the two pets, then back at Sherlock, who huffed.

"You can't be serious," Sherlock said. "They're animals, John."

"I know but...doesn't feel right."

Sherlock sighed and shrugged.

"To each his own."

And, taking John by the arm, he dragged him into the bedroom, leaving the two animals sitting, still quite confused, in the living room while the end credits for _Star Trek_ rolled mundanely on the television.


	2. In The Bones

NOTE: A bit angsty, but I digress. Had this idea whilst RP-ing with my friend. Basically, this is a letter from Sherlock to his brother, who has gotten bone marrow cancer, regarding a particularly sensitive subject.

**Length: **998

**Pairing:** Negative Holmescest

**Notable Content: **Angst, mentions and implications of self-harm, sexual abuse, and incest.

IN THE BONES

Mycroft,

John told me to write to you. You probably know that I wouldn't do so on my own accord, but nonetheless...

Judging by the fact that you are receiving this letter, and judging by the pretext with which I opened this letter, it's safe to assume that this is about what had occurred on that night of September the 18th, 1992. Pardon my formality, but I find no other appropriate means of addressing this issue.

Allow me to inform you that I have never spoken a word of this to anyone, as promised, up until now. And, regarding the circumstances, I find it forgivable. Nevertheless, I've only told John, and no one else. Honestly, I don't think anyone else deserves to know...not even Mummy. She probably wouldn't believe me anyway, but I digress.

I suppose you want to know why I chose to tell John, before I continue. As you know, we're...for lack of a better phrase, "dating." He'd seen me before, however, without clothes - with no premise, mind you - and I'm sure he's noticed the scars that I'd managed to accumulate over the years, and admittedly some are out of sheer recklessness or are work-related, like the one I have on my elbow when I fell out of that tree in our orchard when I was ten, or the one on my left shoulder where I was shanked in Picadilly on that case about the renegade friar. Even so, the majority are, in fact, self-inflicted, mainly because of this issue, this rift between us.

Anyway, we've begun sleeping together - literally, since I'm not entirely ready for the figurative sense of that yet - and finally he asked me about the scars. Being a doctor, he could obviously tell which ones were accidental and which were not, and after much argumentation and deliberation, I finally told him. I started with the ones for the bullies, the drugs, the rejections, and finally, September 18th, 1992. I told him how you came into my bedroom, woke me, shook away my bleariness, how your face was stern and cold and you said nothing, you just...touched me. I told him how I didn't scream, I didn't struggle, I just let you touch me in my confusion, and when you were finished, I cried quietly until the sun came up, because I didn't know what else to do.

John was angry, but he didn't say so. He never will, either, because he says that this is between us, and this is something we need to sort out. I've refused to for a while, but again, the circumstances surrounding us leave me with almost no choice.

Now I've had, of course, a lot of questions since then as to why you did what you did, but I am led to believe it was because of some dormant set anger, some need for control, or maybe it was a way to cope with rejection, with father's...blunders...but regardless, I quite honestly demand an explanation, and I believe that I am rightfully entitled to one.

I was eight years old, Mycroft, and despite my intellect at the time, I was still just a child, your little brother. I couldn't comprehend, nor understand, what it is you did to me, or why. Granted, now that I'm older, I obviously know what it is you did, but for all the years that followed, all the way up until now, I have neglected to question you, neglected to even let myself question it, but upon making such a confession to John, I felt obligated to reclaim whatever it is you robbed from me. John suggested that I write to you, since I was rather adamant about avoiding a face to face confrontation.

I suppose I should be out with it now.

Mycroft, why did you do this to me?

I'm led to believe that because of what you did, my mental state has been altered in the areas of sexuality and sexual affairs. Ever since that night, I've been constantly questioning those aspects within me. It may seem trivial, to spend such contemplation on things like that, but I haven't really been able to let myself forget it...because honestly, who in their right - or wrong - mind could forget something like that? I can say with confidence that I do not know the answer to that question, and I probably never will.

Brother mine, I want to forgive you. Truly. I do. But until I can know why you chose to do what you did that night, I cannot bring myself to. And Mycroft, I am sorry. I really am. I can only hope that you are, too.

I wanted to let you know. They told me today that you may die without the transplant, that the bone marrow is your only chance, since the cancer itself has been isolated. But without the transplant, the cancer will spread quickly and consume you slowly, but entirely. There will be pain, and of course, eventual death.

That being said, I'm going through with the procedure tomorrow. John told me that it'll be very painful, but it'll be safe and it should work for you, and he'll even be there to help, if necessary.

I'm afraid, brother. I'm afraid of the pain, and I'm afraid that no amount of bone marrow I give can save you...and I cannot leave this undone.

You hurt me, you scarred me, Mycroft. But I want so much to forgive you, despite how I may claim to hate you, despite my reproachful way towards you. I want to forgive you.

I do hope that you may wake to find this letter by your bedside when all is said and done, and that you are well enough to understand it and answer my questions, and then maybe we can become...repaired.

I...don't hate you.

I love you, my brother.

Forgive me, and help me, please, help me forgive you.

_- Sherlock_


	3. Of Love and Revolvers

NOTE: Post-Reichenbach. Lots of people write these kinds of stories in John's POV, but instead I chose to tell it through Sherlock's. Anyway, enjoy.

**Length: **1004

**Pairing:** Johnlock

**Notable Content:** Angst, drug use, mentions of suicide, and brotherly love - I felt the need to redeem the elder Holmes since the last installment was a bit cruel!

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><p><span>OF LOVE AND REVOLVERS<span>

Sherlock sat in the large leather wing-backed chair, wrapped in a fleece blanket, shuddering. He wasn't cold, however, and if there was any indication that he may be ill it would be wrongly inferred from his snow white skin, red-rimmed eyes, and the needle that was snugly settled in the skin of the crease on his left inner arm. He stared at the fire, eyes glazed, as he slowly extracted the needle.

It had only been about a month since his stunt at the top of St. Bart's. One month since he had defeated the world's most dangerous criminal. One month since he won the game. One month since he faked his own death in the hopes to save all whom he loved.

One month since he shattered the heart of his lover.

Since he watched from a distance as his lover tore himself apart. Since he had heard John Watson's voice scream his name for the last time, not in ecstasy of the electric sensations of touch, but in longing, terror, disparity.

Sherlock Holmes hadn't died that day; John Watson had.

Sherlock groaned and leaned his head back, clenching his fist as he felt the cocaine tickle his veins and spread throughout his body. He breathed in long, calculated, lengthy breaths, and swallowed down his ever-approaching tears. He longed desperately for John to burst through the door, growling in anger at his current state, grab the needle, cup his face in his hands, stroke his flushed cheeks, oh you idiot, hush, you're alright, it's enough now, you don't need it.

The tears broke the threshold. Cocaine wouldn't stop this, he knew.

Bleary eyed and trembling, Sherlock stood and staggered over to the mantle, unhinging a small wooden box. Inside was a beautiful silver revolver, with engravings of the fleur-de-lis and his family crest on the rosewood handle, the name "Mycroft Holmes" embossed on the barrel. It had been a gift to his big brother from their Uncle Sigerson on Mycroft's sixteenth birthday, and now it was settled in the younger's tentative, shaky hands, the cool metal nearly stinging his pale fingers.

Sherlock held the gun, staring for a long time, his hazy eyes watching the reflections of the roaring fire against the sparkling metal, and he wondered how angry Mycroft would be if he'd stained the beautiful imported carpet with his blood. He decided he didn't care, and he closed his eyes.

_He felt John on his lips, on his tongue. He could feel his rough, calloused hands grazing over his canvas white chest and belly, the soft breath brushing against his neck._

"_I love you," John kept saying over and over. Sherlock shuddered at his touch, devouring the sensations and categorizing each reaction, each notion, every inch of his skin thickly coated with his lover's scents and touches and kisses and oh, the overwhelming euphoria that overtook him was better than any cocaine, any heroin, any drug he had subjected his mind and body to before, and it was all John Watson. John Watson, who loved him so passionately that it set his heart aflame, tore his walls asunder, nearly ravaging all his being with such emotion that he trembled at the thought. John Watson, his happiness, at long last._

"_I love you...I love you..."_

"John...oh God, John..."

He could feel the tears streaming down his face as he held the gun to his lips, the world spinning shamelessly around him as he tasted the metal barrel, his tongue flicking notably over his brother's name.

_John, I'm so sorry..._

"Sherlock."

His brother's harsh voice cut him deeply, like a javelin spearing his back. He jolted, choked on the barrel of the gun, flung it back onto the mantlepiece and spun round, facing his brother.

Mycroft stood firmly, but his face and eyes were soft, arms crossed. He held the syringe, clutching it scornfully, with controlled anger, in his left hand.

"And what do you think you're doing?" he asked. The remark was plain, frustrated, but a twinge of concern laced his words. Sherlock stood tense, eyes flickering back and forth in frantic consideration.

"I...I..."

"I had just polished that revolver only yesterday, you know, and now you've practically drooled all over it. You're such a child."

Sherlock said nothing. He simply stared as his brother tucked the syringe in his jacket pocket and sighed, then approached his little brother. Sherlock flinched just slightly as Mycroft put his hands on his shoulders.

"Hush now, brother," he said quietly. It sounded like a command, tenderness only frosting it as Mycroft gently wiped his brother's face.

"Mycroft..."

"Sh, stop your blubbering before you speak."

"Mycroft...I can't..."

Mycroft smoothed Sherlock's matted curls, shaking his head lightly.

"It's necessary," he said. "As much as you don't want it to be. You know that if you hadn't done it they'd _all_ be dead."

Sherlock nodded.

"But...John..."

Mycroft stroked Sherlock's moist cheek.

"You'll see him again."

Sherlock swallowed, sniffing and trying desperately to blink away his tears.

"I never told him," he said in a small voice. Mycroft cocked his head.

"You couldn't," he said. Sherlock shook his head vigorously and hiccuped.

"No," he said. "I never told him that I...that I...love..."

Sherlock hung his head and made a small anguished noise. Mycroft then sighed in understanding, nodding slowly.

"You never told him, but he knew," he said after a beat. "If nothing else, he knew that."

Sherlock shot his eyes up to his brother's, his murky silver stare meeting Mycroft's cool blue one, and he took a sharp breath inward.

"I need to see him," he said very quietly. "Just once more...I just need..."

Mycroft pulled his brother into him then, and Sherlock sobbed against his shoulder violently, shuddering and moaning and staining Mycroft's brand new suit. Mycroft smiled sadly and stroked his brother's sweat-dampened back, cooing tenderly and nuzzling his dark curls.

"In due time, brother dear," he said softly. "In due time."


	4. Tactile Orders

**Length: **1734

**Pairing:** Johnlock

**Notable Content: **Sex, VERYtop!John, and some militarykink!Sherlock.

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><p><span>TACTILE ORDERS<span>

It had been three months. Just three months since John and Sherlock had mutually agreed that they were more than flat mates, more than friends, and were not beyond having their hands in each other's pants or tongues in each other's mouths. Still, they agreed (though Sherlock did so with some difficulty) that there was in fact romantic attraction, and they had proceeded to endeavour along the path of being "boyfriends."

Sherlock had disagreed to being called such, however. He thought that labeling them would be a technicality they could do without. Said the term was juvenile. Said it was unnecessary. Said somewhere in the conversation that he was virgin.

Sherlock was a virgin._ Was._

It had taken about two weeks into their newly established relationship before Sherlock had come into the living room, steamy and wet from a shower, completely naked, clenching his fists, saying "John Watson I am ready for you," to which John had responded with a short chuckle. When Sherlock simply looked at him, blushing furiously and nodding once, John then understood that he was completely serious. He had sprung off the couch, tore off his shirt, and the two bodies crashed together like dominoes in the doorway, John pressing Sherlock's teetering naked frame into the wall.

They had somehow made it to the bedroom, then, and John had proceeded to claim the detective's body with the utmost care and tenderness. If Sherlock hadn't insisted on being gentle, John would have ravaged the man repeatedly, but Sherlock had said that his first time "wouldn't be right" if they had jumped right into it...though admittedly they some what did.

The weeks proceeding were, by anyone's definition, absolutely exhausting, but utterly brilliant. Solve-a-case sex, lazy-morning sex, late-at-night-sleepy sex, bored-on-the-couch sex, hungry sex, tired sex, giggly sex, angry sex, i-love-you-idiot sex, you're-my-universe sex, but perhaps most of all: "John, I want to try something" sex.

John loved Sherlock, everything about him, especially his experimental nature, but to be honest, he was becoming a bit drained. By the end of their first month, they had had so much sex that John began to question his existence. But any doubts he had about anything simply melted away when he was laying in bed with Sherlock, his arms wrapped around the pale detective's shoulders while he twirled his fingers in his ebon curls, Sherlock's fingers loosely fit between his own, breathing lightly against his arm. These were the moments that John lived for, because regardless of anything, Sherlock was always falling asleep in his arms at night, safe and sound, pressed against John's chest.

It had been a day or two since they'd had a case, and Sherlock was quite literally tearing himself apart. He sat on the couch for hours, groaning at random intervals, contorting his body every which way, and when John got home, he found his lovely detective sprawled haphazardly along the edge of the couch, his head hanging upside down off the side, his legs up against the back, and his arms strewn about him. His eyes were closed, and his white t-shirt bunched and folded up along his torso, revealing his pale, concave belly.

"Productive day?" John said with a smile, to which Sherlock responded with a grumpy moan. John chuckled and went into the kitchen, preparing a pot of tea while ferreting through the fridge for something to eat.

"We need to go shopping," John remarked as he looked through the cupboards.

"Dull."

John sighed through a smile and made two cups of tea, abandoning the search for food, and brought the cups into the living room, placing one cup on the coffee table for Sherlock. He then sat at the desk and opened his laptop, sipping his tea thoughtfully.

After about twenty-seven minutes of silence, sans the clacking of the keyboard, Sherlock groaned.

"Jaaaaawn."

"Yes Sherlock."

"Jaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaawn."

"_Yes_, Sherlock."

"I'm _bored_, John."

"I know."

"_BORED, _John. Bored bored. So bored. Cannot function. I'm dying from boredom, John. I'm literally dying. I'm going to be dead."

John sighed, muttering "drama queen" under his breath. He turned around to see the younger man staring at him from the floor, upside down, while his legs and lower half were flailed about on the couch. His arms were spread out on the floor. John chuckled.

"You look ridiculous," he said, standing and closing his laptop. Sherlock stuck his tongue out and said nothing. Smiling still, John came over to the lanky heap of his lover and stood over him. Sherlock looked up at him.

"Strange, perception from this angle," he muttered. He tilted his head, and John looked at him fondly.

"You're adorably annoying, you know that?" he said. He poked Sherlock's leg. Sherlock shrugged.

"Entertain me?" he said innocently. John pretended to think.

"Thought you were dying? As a doctor in the least, I don't promote necrophilia, Sherlock. It's very unsanitary, to say the least."

"Oh, shut up."

Sherlock pouted, crossing his arms, and John smiled. He tutted, hummed a bit, and finally threw his leg over Sherlock's torso and straddled him, so that he was in rather close proximity with Sherlock's mid-lower section. Sherlock seemed surprised.

"Now don't squirm because this could end badly if you do," John said. Sherlock said nothing. He simply lay there, bemused, as John worked at sliding off his flannel pajama pants and boxer briefs. He shivered when his bare legs and bottom were finally exposed, and John licked his inner thigh. Sherlock moaned lightly.

"Still bored?" John breathed against Sherlock's moist thigh. Sherlock swallowed.

"Yes..." he said very unconvincingly. John smiled and caressed the backs of Sherlock's thighs, running his hands up and down, his nails grazing his pale skin. Sherlock's toes curled, and John chuckled. He bent down and traced tiny circles with his tongue on Sherlock's pale skin, drawing very close to his coarse, ginger brown curls.

"John..." Sherlock breathed. The doctor muttered a "hm?" Sherlock cleared his throat. "Maybe you should...carry on a bit...more...?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, love," John said against his skin, and he nipped a bit of the tender flesh, to which Sherlock responded with a small moan and a slight thrust of his hips. John pressed a hand on Sherlock's hip, pushing his hips down, and in a swift movement, he bent down and engulfed Sherlock's entire length within his mouth and gave one long suck. Sherlock yelped and gripped the carpet.

John's head moved back and forth slowly, his lips sliding along Sherlock's shaft, his tongue swirling round and round, while his hands pressed the detective's hips down against the back of the couch. Sherlock writhed underneath him, moaning and arching his back, trying desperately to move his restless hips. Finally, John pulled off, licking lightly at Sherlock's tip.

The doctor then got up, leaving Sherlock's throbbing member to lay unattended against Sherlock's lower abdomen. Sherlock gave him an inquisitive look, but hardly had time to do much else as John grabbed his legs and pulled them off the couch, flipping Sherlock over on the ground with a grunt, and finally pinned him to the floor.

"Ow," Sherlock muttered, his face pressed to the carpet.

"Shut up," John whispered hoarsely into his ear. Sherlock swallowed and shuddered. Despite his seemingly passive nature, John had quite a domineering side, which he knew Sherlock absolutely loved, and so he kicked into gear.

"You're mine," he said, nipping Sherlock's earlobe. "Tell me you're mine."

"I'm...yours..."

"Good boy."

John then trailed his tongue down from Sherlock's ear to his neck, and finally bit down on his neck tenderly, eliciting a helpless moan from the pinned detective. He then slid one hand up underneath Sherlock's thin t-shirt and with his other hand, he pried open Sherlock's mouth and slid two fingers in. Stroking one of his nipples, John ground his hips against Sherlock while Sherlock sucked eagerly at John's fingers.

"That's it," John said against Sherlock's pastel white skin. "Good and wet, now."

Sherlock moaned and pushed back against John's rocking hips, wanting more, needing more.

John finally slid his wet fingers from Sherlock's mouth, and as he undid his own pants, he slowly pushed them into Sherlock's entrance. Sherlock cried out and pressed his forehead against the floor, shuddering.

"Are you ready for me, Sherlock?" John said while sucking hard at Sherlock's neck. Sherlock moaned.

"Yes...yes...God yes," he panted. "Please, I need you now, please."

Suddenly John stopped all movement, and Sherlock groaned.

"Excuse me," John said in a frustrated tone, pulling his bared midsection away from Sherlock's aching bottom. Sherlock looked pleadingly over his shoulder.

"What?" he drawled.

"That is no way to address your superior officer," John said with a sly smile. Sherlock closed his eyes and moaned.

"I'm sorry Captain," he said. John shook his head.

"That won't do," he said. "You'll have to pay for that slip up, boy." Sherlock whimpered and nodded.

"Yes, sir."

And with a quick thrust, John was completely inside Sherlock. Sherlock cried out and arched, gritting his teeth.

"Oh God...yes...please..."

"What was that?"

"Please, _Captain_."

John thrust hard into Sherlock.

"Does that feel good?" he asked, breathing heavily against his lover.

"Oh...y-yes sir."

"Do you want some more?"

"Yes..._yes_ sir."

With each thrust, John ground a laboured moan or yelp from his writhing detective, who clawed the carpet. John reached around and gripped Sherlock leaking, throbbing erection and stroked it hard with his thrusts. Sherlock cried out.

"God J-"

"_No_," John said expectedly, bucking his hips and delivering another quick, frenzied thrust.

"Captain! Oh Captain!"

"Are you close?"

"Yes, sir! Oh, God, _please_ don't stop, sir!"

John shivered and with each movement pulled Sherlock, and himself, closer and closer to climax. It was Sherlock who hit it first, clenching around John and tensing, shuddering.

"God, yes!"

John was on the brink. He managed to grind out: "Yes _what?"_

"_Yes Captain!"_

And Sherlock was gone, with John soon to follow.

The two lay on the floor in a heap, panting and heaving, Sherlock's fingers entagled in John's, whose forehead was pressed in between Sherlock's shoulder blades. After a few moments of silence, Sherlock spoke.

"John?" he said groggily. John sighed and nuzzled Sherlock's back.

"Yes, love."

"I'm not bored anymore."


	5. Of Otherwise Unimportant Discrepancies

**Length: **1252

**Pairing:** Johnlock

**Notable Content: **Fluffy fluff, very brief suggestion of sex, cuddling, and Sherlock being somewhat OOC as a bumbling romantic idiot.

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><p><span>OF OTHERWISE UNIMPORTANT DISCREPANCIES<span>

On that particular evening in 221B, Sherlock sat curled in under John's strong, warm trunk of an arm as he studied the case files that lay on John's lap. John himself was sipping his tea, mindlessly twirling his fingers in Sherlock's raven locks while Sherlock read. The TV muttered quietly in the background - some late night documentary about tortoises that Sherlock had turned on but had no intention of watching.

"Lestrade is an idiot sometimes," Sherlock muttered, flipping a page over. "Clearly the murder weapon was the brother's rake. I thought that'd be obvious by the grass stains." John chuckled and murmured into Sherlock's dark mop of hair.

"Not everyone's a genius, 'Lock."

"How unfortunately dull."

John sighed happily and kissed the top of his lover's head, nuzzling his nose in the sea of curls for but a moment.

"You always smell so brilliant," he said quietly into Sherlock's hair.

"Mm."

John smiled and kissed him again.

"Come on, let's call it a night," he whispered, trailing his lips down to Sherlock's ear.

"I've got a lot of work to do," Sherlock said, unperturbed. John nipped playfully at Sherlock's ear and said in a low, breathy voice.

"Me too."

Sherlock sighed and closed the file, looking up at John, who smiled hopefully.

"I really would like to finish this..." Sherlock said plainly. John sighed heavily and his smile faded a bit.

"Alright, that's fine," he said with disappointment. He took his arm away and stood, turning off the TV. Sherlock straightened, holding the case file in his lap.

"I won't be long," Sherlock said, trying to sound reassuring. John waved his hand.

"No, it's fine. I'll get to bed," he said with a dismissive smile. He leaned over and planted a small kiss on Sherlock's forehead.

"Good night," he said. He then walked out of the room.

Sherlock frowned. Should he have abandoned the file to go to bed with his lover? Was it wrong to want to finish his work?

Sherlock flopped the case file onto the coffee table and sighed.

John knew from the start. His work came first. Always. Even before they had begun their relationship, Sherlock had made it clear that the work meant everything. John had always been understanding, and whenever they had agreed to becoming boyfriends - or whatever they were - the idea of the Work being Sherlock's main priority didn't change.

But still, Sherlock couldn't shake the feeling of guilt.

_Not much cop this caring lark..._

Sherlock grumbled and rubbed his face with both hands. Down the hall he could hear John whistling some misplaced melody as he readied for bed.

Sherlock's heart tugged, and he sighed. Having a boyfriend - oh how he did detest the phrase - was greatly affecting his thought process, he had to admit. He cared so much for John, wanted so very much to please him, that sometimes the Work was jeopardized. But how much did it matter? Really, how much did it matter? John was his world, his entire universe, and here he was, sitting on the couch, alone, suddenly cold, clutching a case that he knew he could solve within minutes. And besides, cases became so very hard to concentrate on when he had quite the attractive army doctor sprawled on his bed each night, his naked body trussed in milky twilight, glistening with sandy skin and those eyes that made him want to just melt into The World's Only Consulting Puddle.

Sherlock stood and walked down the hall begrudgingly, the abandoned case file sitting unhappily on the couch, knowing that it was soon to be forgotten. It would only take a moment to sort out the other minor inconsistencies of the case: a moment that he could reclaim easily. Every moment with John, however, he could never replace. He'd have thousands of cases, thousands. But John...he'd never have another John Watson. Ever.

He stood in the doorway of John's bedroom, which had now become "their" bedroom.

"Finished already?" John asked distractedly as he searched in his dresser on his tip toes - he kept his pajamas on the top drawer. Sherlock smirked a bit at how cute his doctor looked before regaining his stark expression.

"I'm sorry," he said flatly. John plucked a pair of printed pajama pants from the drawer, the ones with smiley faces on them that Mrs. Hudson had bought him for Christmas, and began undressing.

"What for?" John asked honestly as he removed his jumper and under shirt. Sherlock sighed.

"For...not reciprocating," he said with calculated hesitance. John smiled at him and shimmied his pants off along with his boxers, standing completely in the buff for but a moment while he reached for his pajamas. Sherlock's eyes swept greedily over the stocky figure before he regained focus.

"It's fine, 'Lock," John said, pulling his pants up and placing his hands on his hips. He looked at Sherlock. "I know you have your work to do." Sherlock rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flicking up and down his lover's frame.

"Well...maybe I shouldn't always put my work first..." he said with some struggle. John's eyebrows perked up and he made an incredulous scoff before shaking his head and undoing the bed.

"Sherlock, I told you, it's fine," he said as he crawled under the sheets. "Your work is important to you, and you know I'll respect that."

"But _you're_ important to me."

There was a beat of silence, and John gave a smile that said_ "you're absolutely adorable"_ before smoothing the covers around him.

"I know, love," he said. "And it's fine. All fine. Ok?"

"...alright."

"Right. You're ok then?"

"Yes."

"Good. Turn off the light on your way out, and please be quiet when you come to bed. Alright? Night, 'Lock."

"Good night John..."

He flicked the switch and pulled the door to an almost closed behind him. He stood in the hall, arms crossed, listening as John shifted in bed. The problem was solved, he could go back to his case, back to thinking, back to his lovely spot on the couch with the folder and the papers and the photos of corpses. Alone.

After about six minutes, he threw the door open and turned on the light. John sat up confusedly, blinking.

"What?" he asked. Sherlock strode across the bedroom swiftly, threw himself onto the short, warm body on the bed, and buried his face in John's bare chest.

"I'm not good at being a boyfriend, am I," Sherlock said pathetically. John chuckled and pat his curly head.

"You're fine, 'Lock."

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's waist.

"I love you. A lot."

"I know, Sherlock."

"More than my work."

"I know."

"...but I still love my work. A lot."

John smiled.

"You're an actual idiot, aren't you?" he said, and Sherlock looked up at him.

"The biggest," Sherlock admitted with a frown. John kissed his forehead with a smile.

"Sometimes it's ok not to think about things," he said, his lips still on Sherlock's pale skin.

"It's hard not to think," Sherlock pouted. John stroked his head and his smile widened.

"I know, but that's what I'm for, isn't it? You do the thinking and I do the normal people stuff."

Sherlock rested his head on John's chest.

"You're not a normal person, John."

"Thank you for that."

And the two fell asleep soundly, John's fingers twirled loosely in Sherlock's hair, and Sherlock mumbling about the now rendered unimportant discrepancies in the case file. But that was all fine.


	6. Size Matters

**Length: **2000-ish

**Pairing(s): **Johnlock

**Notable Content: **Fluff, romantic tomfoolery, and UFO's.

* * *

><p><span>SIZE MATTERS<span>

John was small. This was a fact. Not entirely, of course, but his stature being concerned, he was quite compact. He put stools and benches all around the flat, from the bathroom to the kitchen, and sometimes in his closet. All his possessions, wherever they were, always sat at a lower shelf or level than anything else. His favourite mugs and books were a shelf or a cupboard below all of the other things, his clothes were arranged so that the most worn items were in the middle to bottom drawers of his dresser, the top shelf in his closet was barren, and even his toiletries sat on the very bottom rung of the shower caddy in the bathroom.

Yes, John was small.

John was also very large.

He had muscle, timid muscle, underneath his bulky jumpers and loose fitting jeans, that he had built up while in the army. His legs were stocky and fit, his arms thick and firm. His stomach was only laced with a barely pinch-able amount of belly fat, with otherwise steely abs and tight pectorals that were only ever accentuated in tight fitting pajama shirts or glimpses of naked flesh.

And John was always packing where it _truly_ counted. And packing quite the bundle.

Everything about John was a perfect combination of fluffy and short and stocky, broad, and masculine. His body was by no means heavenly, but what he lacked in grace he made up for in a delicious mixture of brute strength and perfect tenderness.

As far as Sherlock was concerned, John was perfect.

Not to be discluded, however, Sherlock's own body was, by any means, gorgeous.

It was seemingly chiseled from godly marble, the flecks of scars merely adding definition. His stark white skin was pulled taut over his lean, toned muscles, poised and tender, fine lines defining his features. His chest and stomach were by no means spectacularly muscular, but rather humbly shaped muscle sat snug under his skin, his ribs just barely visible, his belly flat and hard. He was only slightly bony, his clavicle a bit too apparent for any man, his hips a little too prominent, and of course, those damn cheek bones.

But Sherlock had length. Always.

His legs were the main culprit, stretching gracefully from his core like limbs of a birch, only dusted with reddish brown hair, calves and thighs flaunting shapely muscle and artistic curvature. His arms and fingers were nimble and fine lined, lanky only when he lay strewn about from boredom, but otherwise carved modestly with sparkling white flesh.

And yes, Sherlock had length where it _truly_ counted. Proportional, but no less alarming.

But as far as Sherlock was concerned, he was flawed. Massively.

John was perfect, so perfect for him, in every way, smallness and all. But Sherlock felt like John deserved more, deserved better than him. Better than the detached, work-a-holic detective with so many problems he couldn't list them all; better than the pale, lanky man with the skewed perception of love and the knack for being a complete idiot when it came to sentiment and dear God anything emotional, for that matter; better than the freak.

Sherlock wanted to do better for John.

Which is why Sherlock was going to ask John to marry him.

It was a sunny morning in June, a warm breeze bristling through the open windows of their flat, and John was happily munching on his toast and jam. Sherlock sat next to him, pushing the scrambled eggs around on his plate pensively. John had made them breakfast after a long night of fantastic love-making, playful cuddling, kissing, pillow talk, and eventual sleep. It had been their "anniversary" of sorts - the day that marked their official start of being in a relationship, even though they had considered the fact that they were probably already in one without knowing. It was more for John's benefit - he needed labels. Consistency. Connection.

"You ok?" John asked, touching Sherlock's hand. Sherlock glanced up at him.

"Yes," he said, perhaps too quickly. The doctor cocked a brow.

"Not convincing," he said before biting into his toast, dripping with strawberry jam. Sherlock sighed.

"Just thinking," he said honestly, sipping his coffee and gazing out the window.

"About?"

Sherlock licked his lips carefully and said without looking at John.

"Last night marked two years."

John smiled.

"Yes," he said, and he gave Sherlock's hand a loving squeeze. "Two bloody years I've been putting up with you." Sherlock scoffed playfully and gave him a look.

"You're positively brilliant," John went on, kissing Sherlock's hand. "And I love you. You know that."

"I do," Sherlock said with a small, secret smile, one that was reserved only for John. John's smile.

_I do..._

John pat Sherlock's hand.

"Well, I better be off," he said, standing. He straightened his tie. "Don't wanna be late."

Sherlock pouted.

"I do dislike the fact that you find it necessary to leave me each day to go be with Sarah," he said with a frown. John rolled his eyes and brought his plate to the kitchen.

"It's my job, 'Lock," he called. "Don't be like that."

"Yes, but all the same..."

John met Sherlock at the doorway, and the two kissed, perhaps a little too deeply for a simple good bye, before John smiled and walked out, a skip to his step as he whistled happily down the stairs.

When Sherlock was sure he was gone, he called his brother.

"I'm busy, Sherlock," came the hushed answer after two rings. Sherlock bit his tongue to hold back the witty retort. He needed help.

"Mycroft, I require your...assistance," he ground out, sitting on the couch and crossing his legs. Mycroft sighed heavily, and muttered an "excuse me" before apparently leaving wherever he was and answering his brother again.

"I was in a meeting," he said frustratedly. "What could you possibly-"

"I want to marry John Watson."

The words literally tumbled from his mouth. He swallowed. Mycroft was silent. For what seemed like a long time.

"You're sure about this?" he finally said in a calculated tone. Sherlock nodded along with adding a brief "absolutely." Mycroft sighed again, but a lighter one, and Sherlock could tell his brother was smiling.

"It's taken you quite a long time to uncover this one, dear brother," he said sarcastically. "Getting slow, are we?" Sherlock grumbled.

"Sod off and help me figure out what to do," Sherlock said quickly. He hated asking his brother for help. But he needed this to be perfect. For John. Because John was perfect.

"Alright, alright," Mycroft said. "First thing you'll need is a ring."

* * *

><p>The dilemma was incredible. The horrification of the problem struck Sherlock with such reverberating panic that he nearly toppled. The sale's associate watched him curiously.<p>

"Sir?" she asked hesitantly. Sherlock started a bit.

"I...I don't know," he said. He gazed at the rings beneath the glass surface, eyes flickering this way and that. "I've absolutely no idea."

"Well, what's his shoe size? Normally ring sizes correspond with-"

"Good God..."

How could he not know? He didn't even know what kind of shoes John normally wore. He never paid attention. He just let John be John and reaped the benefits. How could he have never observed something as simple as a shoe size...a ring size?

He wracked his brain for John's measurements, but he was drawing a blank. A complete, terrifying blank.

He tried to think of John proportionally, estimating judging by how he'd seen him naked before what his measurements were (if he could do it with Irene Adler he sure as hell better be able to do it with his boyfriend), but every time he pictured John naked, the stocky, stout figure with the rather immense penis between his legs, he simply ran the risk of becoming publicly aroused.

This would not do.

"Well, if you don't know, take your best guess. Sometimes you can get lucky in that-"

"No," Sherlock said sharply, flicking his gaze to the slightly frightened looking woman. "It has to be perfect for him."

The woman chewed her lip.

"Why don't you ask?" she said cautiously. "Or find some way to-"

"I'll be back later this week," Sherlock said, and with that he dashed off, leaving the woman to blink curiously at his back.

* * *

><p>After several failed attempts <em>("John?" "Yeah?" "What...can I...I have to..." "What?" "Nothing." <em>or_ "Sherlock why are you in my closet?" "Nothing! I'm not looking at anything!" "O...k..." _or_ "Sherlock! What - !" "Go back to sleep." "Get...why is there string around my finger?" "Ex...periment?" "What have I told you? Not while I'm asleep!" _and several other fruitless efforts_) _Sherlock was still ringless and sizeless, and thus he had submitted to sulking on the couch and watching conspiracy documentaries about UFO landings.

"Sherlock?" John asked as he walked in to see his lover sitting cross legged on the couch, pouting at the television with a bowl of something smothered in chocolate syrup. He shoveled the substance into his mouth with disdain.

"Preposterous," he said with a full mouth of what John liked to assume was ice cream.

"Everything alright?"

"Fine."

John could tell he was in a mood, so he left his lover to pout as some man with crazy hair swore, just _swore_ the strange air craft had landed in his corn field.

* * *

><p>Two weeks passed, and John and Sherlock were on a case. Sherlock was crouched near a body, heart pounding, ringing in his ears, as he examined with his tiny magnifier. John squatted near him, Lestrade standing expectedly behind the two. Finally, Sherlock growled and tossed his magnifier over his shoulder. John cocked his head.<p>

"Problem?" Lestrade asked. Anderson and Sally stood nearby, curiously staring. Sherlock looked at John.

"Stand up," he said. John blinked once, but did as he was told. Sherlock stayed knelt in front of him, digging his hands into his pockets. He glanced at Lestrade and the others.

"This will only take a moment," he said. He looked up at John, who was looking a little more than confused.

"John Hamish Watson," he said. He retrieved a small velvet box from within his pant pocket. "I have thought about this for a long, long time, but I feel that either way, the event is imminent given our current situation and status as lovers" - here, Anderson and Sally snickered, having only been vaguely aware of the current relationship betwixt the two - "and therefore, I'm going to take proper initiative and preemptive measures to further and eventually finalize our relationship." John was visibly red, and Lestrade wore a smirk that was far more than amused.

"So then," Sherlock continued. He brought the box up and opened it in front of John. "John Hamish Watson, I want you to marry me."

There was a silence as John took the box and looked at the tiny object within.

It was a small, white gold ring laced with a single rose gold stripe, and it rested neatly on a thick, silver chain. On the inner side, the words: "Heroes do exist, and you are mine - Sherlock" were engraved with elegant lettering into the gold. John swallowed.

"I'm sorry it's on a chain," Sherlock said. He flushed. "I didn't know your ring size."

John stammered, chuckled, and looked down at Sherlock, tears only slightly welling within his eyes.

"I love you," he said, and he leant over and kissed his now blushing fiancé full on the mouth, clutching the ring and chain in his palm.

Lestrade smiled wide, chuckling and feeling a slightly ridiculous sense of warmth, given the fact that Sherlock had just professed his love and proposition to marry whilst kneeling not three feet from a corpse, but of course, Sherlock Holmes would do just that.

Three months later, Sherlock and John strode happily down the aisle, arm in arm, hand in hand, and this time, with properly sized wedding bands. John still kept the one on the chain, however, and he wore it proudly, because sometimes, size didn't really matter.


	7. Memories and Love Songs are Discovered

NOTE: This was partly inspired by the poem_ The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock_ by T.S. Eliot. It's very...Sherlockian in that it describes a man with a longing for human connection, but with no social skill and immense lack of decisive interaction. It's a bit depressing, but I thought it may be good to dabble with it a bit. This is what popped out of my brain.

**Length: **1300+

**Pairing(s):** Johnlock if you want it to be, but no delivery

**Notable Content: **T.S. Eliot, mentions of younger Holmes boys, and John being a little nosy

* * *

><p><span>IN WHICH MEMORIES AND LOVE SONGS ARE DISCOVERED<span>

John wasn't one to pry. To ask questions, of course, but never to invade the privacy of someone. Not usually.

However, Sherlock Holmes was a man of such mystery and introspection that sometimes John couldn't help it. And besides, he reasoned, Sherlock went through his own belongings all the time.

This was, however, the jack pot.

Sherlock was out - he had gone to the morgue to put the finishing touches on an experiment that involved a severed head and beeswax - when the package came. Sherlock never really received anything of importance in the post, so when the box came, holding no return address and with the scrawly message "FOR SHERLOCK HOLMES: HANDLE WITH CARE, FOR GOD'S SAKE" printed in permanent marker on the top, John couldn't resist.

It was a box about the size of a text book, depth and all, and it sat on the table for a good hour and a half before John caved and opened it.

He took the wrapping and tape off, then gently placed the white box, dingy and worn, on the table in front of him. Written in similar spidery handwriting that John immediately recognized as Sherlock's, and in a ballpoint pen, the message on the box's lid said "The Private Items of S. Holmes: KEEP OUT."

Underneath the vehement declaration of privacy, in smaller writing, these words were also written:

"If I but thought that my response were made

to one perhaps returning to the world,

this tongue of flame would cease to flicker.

But since, up from these depths no one has yet

returned alive, if what I hear is true,

I answer without fear of being shamed."

John didn't immediately recognize the line of poetry, but he stowed that thought for later and removed the lid.

The contents of the box would seem otherwise mundane to anyone else. But for John, it was a treasure trove of all things Sherlock. There were old, yellowing pictures, papers, envelopes, rocks, a book, doodles, and other trinkets that came from Sherlock's younger life. John's hands actually trembled, afraid to disturb the carefully laid objects, hesitant to disturb their slumber.

These were remnants of Sherlock's past life, the life he never spoke of, that he only caught glimpses of in conversations with Mycroft or hints of pain or longing or fond remembrance reflected only briefly in Sherlock's eyes, on his face.

But this, this was proof. This was evidence. John removed the pictures first, flipping through them.

YThey were each dated, the handwriting on the back identical to the one that had been on the packaging paper. The first one John looked at was indeed an old photo, and in it stood two boys, one broad and tall with light, gingery brown hair and a childish chubbiness, and the other, hooked under the larger boy's arm, a very small, young, frail looking lanky boy with deep auburn curls that were a little too long and wild. They were smiling toothy grins of joy, dressed in dirty equestrian garb, and they stood in the midst of what looked like a stable. John flipped the photo over and read the fading inscription: "Sherlock's first day of riding; M aged 14, S aged 7."

John's eyes lit up. The tiny boy smiled at him, smudges of mud and dirt about his face and knees where he had no doubt fallen and acquired with pride. Sherlock, at seven years old. The pale face in the picture was hardly like Sherlock's face at all, and at first, John thought that it may not actually be him. The happiness that brushed his cheeks - John eventually concluded that it _was_ Sherlock, since those cheekbones gave way to it, always - was very un-Sherlock. John continued his investigation.

The next photo was formal, and it showed another young Sherlock, aged 14, according to the back of the photo, holding a violin and standing in very formal dress, with a black bow tie and cummerbund and all. The inscription had read "Sherlock's first violin recital," and John chuckled. The Sherlock in the picture definitely looked more like the one he knew, with a grimacing face and a look of pure discomfort, clutching the violin close to him, as if he'd attack anyone who touched it. His curls were tamed, but still wild and still auburn, though they had darkened from the last photo. He was much taller, and very thin, very pale, and his eyes held the deep set calculation that John was so acquainted with. This was Sherlock.

There were more photos, and John soared through each one, watching Sherlock's memories flicker before his eyes.

"Sherlock's broken arm, aged 10"

"Mycroft piano recital, aged 16"

"S first day at Cambridge"

"Boys playing cricket, S aged 17, M aged 24"

"M graduation from Oxford"

"S to Oxford, aged 19"

"Christmas, '97"

One particular photo, however, John stared at for a long time. In Sherlock's handwriting, the message on the back read: "Myc and me on my birthday: Jan. 6, '95 "

In the photo, Sherlock was young, twelve years old, and he sat with a shy smile in a wing-backed chair, looking down at the book he was holding, while Mycroft, about nineteen, stood next to him, a hand ruffling his brother's curls, considerably thinner though still a bit broad, also smiling. The smiles on either boy's faces were a bit reluctant looking, but still there, and still genuine. John peered at the book Sherlock was holding.

In the box, he found said book.

"A Collection of Poems by T.S. Eliot"

Upon opening the old text, John read a note scribbled in elegant but messy handwriting on the back of the cover.

"Sherlock,

Don't be sad, things will be better soon. Be good, and be yourself. Always. Happy 12th Birthday, I love you.

-Myc"

John swallowed. A confession of love from Mycroft...the planets must have aligned that day.

Ever curious, John flipped through the pages, reading some of the poems, giggling at the endless annotations scrawled in Sherlock's hand writing along the margins or in the actual poems. He had thoroughly enjoyed this book, John knew, because it was beaten and worn and had almost as much of Sherlock's own writings and musings and notes as the author's.

He came across a poem, then, that was barren of all notes except for one circled stanza, the very last. John, for some reason, felt compelled to read it aloud.

"We have lingered in the chambers of the sea

By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown

Till human voices wake us, and we drown."

"The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," came a voice from behind John. John leapt out of his chair and yelped. He turned to see Sherlock, leaning in the door frame behind him, smirking.

"That one was my favourite," he said. John stammered.

"I...this...came for you in the post," he said, suddenly embarrassed for being caught in the act. Sherlock approached the table and looked down at the contents, now laying haphazardly about the table.

"Honestly, John, can't you read?" he said with only quiet sarcasm. "It clearly says 'keep out' on the lid. Do you think I wrote it for my health?"

"I was...curious," John replied. Sherlock took the book and held it for a while, gazing fondly at it before beginning to replace the items back into the box methodically, as if he had done so many, many times before.

"Mummy must have finally found it," he said, more to himself than to John. "Nice of her to send it off to me."

John watched him as he picked up the box and stood, staring down at it, holding it gingerly in his hands. Sherlock then looked up at John.

"Do you enjoy poetry, John?" he asked. John nodded dumbly. Sherlock then smiled, and a hint of his childish gleam shone within his eyes, if not for just a moment.

"I shall have to read you some," he said, turning and making his way towards the living room. "Mr. Eliot was truly a gifted individual."

And so, John and Sherlock curled on the couch and read T.S. Eliot, while the evening fog of London sprawled across the city, a patient on a table, a cat in the night.


	8. Silly

NOTE: I just decided to write some pointless sleepy fluff for you guys in order to provide some kind of attempt at an update before you all went crazy waiting for chapter 12. So here's some stupid fluff for you. Yeah. It's short. And awful. Title says it all.

**Length: **679

**Pairing(s):** Johnlock

**Notable Content:** Slight OOC-ness because I can, rambling, Sherlock talks in his sleep, John dreams of stupid stuff, some brotherly feels, and otherwise meaningless PWP fluff. You're welcome.

* * *

><p><span>SILLY<span>

Sherlock was mumbling in French now, switching in and out of English at random intervals. John watched, a smile of pure amusement plastered on his face.

In between the long strings of French that John only wished he could understand, the English words he could pick out were things like "buckets" and "pastry chefs" and "roundabout." John determined that it was mostly nonsense things, Sherlock's mind simply running, constant, even when he was asleep, spewing out information or old cases or deductions of his dreams. John wondered if Sherlock actually dreamt or if he just slept and his mind poured out from his mouth.

He'd been sleeping in the same bed as the detective for a little over a year, and every night he'd fallen asleep to the mumbling drone of his lover's sleepy ramblings, whenever Sherlock decided to actually sleep, that is. It'd become something that John probably couldn't fall asleep without.

He'd awoken on this particular night from an admittedly bizarre dream about giant Jammy Dodgers which had morphed into odd biscuit-octopus hybrids, and he was busy fending them off with a spoon and a pistol filled with milk before the detective beside him had flailed and smacked him in the face - accidentally of course - shouting what sounded like a French explicative. He hadn't been mad, just startled, and now he stared, watching the younger man sleep.

John reached over and brushed a stray hair from Sherlock's face, and not a moment after, Sherlock's eyes fluttered open. John smiled.

"Did I wake you?" the younger man asked groggily. John stroked his cheek.

"It's fine," he said. "Seemed like you were having a busy dream."

"I don't dream, John," Sherlock said matter-of-factually, snuggling closer to the doctor. "You're so warm..."

"Are you cold?" John asked, wrapping his arms around the detective.

"There's something about you that makes you smell like good all the time," Sherlock breathed, nestling his head beneath John's chin. John smiled.

"I smell like good?" he chuckled, kissing the top of the man's head.

"_En tout cas,"_ Sherlock said, curling into him. _"Tu est très delicieux, mon capitaine."_

"Sherlock? You're speaking French," John said, nudging him with his nose. There was a pause.

"French ambassador embezzled three years ago," the detective mumbled. "Mycroft was upset. Gained nearly half a stone. Fat git."

John chuckled and stroked Sherlock's ebon hair.

"You're silly you know," he said fondly.

Sherlock had muttered something that John didn't catch, and when the detective's breath was slowing, and when John was close to dozing off again himself, Sherlock suddenly said, quietly and absently.

"I miss him."

John roused himself and glanced down curiously.

"Miss who, Sherlock?" John asked, tracing a circle on the back of Sherlock's neck.

"Mikey. I miss Mikey. He used to be fun and take me places and buy me presents and teach me things and now he's always stressed and doesn't have time for me. I miss him."

John couldn't help but notice how incredibly young Sherlock seemed in that moment. He kissed his forehead.

"He still cares about you, 'Lock," John said. Sherlock sighed tiredly.

"He takes care of me," he said.

"Yes he does."

"He's a good big brother, Mikey."

"Sometimes."

"You take care of me, too."

"Try to, 'Lock."

"You're a good boyfriend."

"Thank you."

Sherlock nuzzled his nose against John's shoulder, and John felt a warmth rise and settle deep within his core.

"I love you," John whispered. "Now try to get some sleep, ok?"

"Mmhmm...love you too...so warm..."

John chortled quietly and drew his lover closer, kissing his head again and closing his eyes. After a moment or two, Sherlock was back to quietly muttering whatever it was his brain could find in the dusty cupboards of his Mind Palace, and John thought that that was all fine, and slipped back into a dream about a talking Parisian jar of jam that resembled the elder Holmes a bit too well, all the while, his fingers curled in Sherlock's hair, his lips pressed to his forehead, with the detective's body snugly curled in his arms, never truly at rest, but always comfortably numb.


	9. Turning Tables

NOTE: Listening to Adele's "Turning Tables" and it gave me Reichenbach Feels. So this came out of my brain. I apologize in advance. I am so, so sorry.

**Length: **673

**Pairing(s):** Johnlock

**Notable Content:** Post-TRF weirdness, self-harm and drug use, suicidal themes, intense John rage, angry rough sex, Reichenbach feels with pretty much no catharsis, and character death. Also. Really long sentences that aren't entirely grammatically correct.

* * *

><p><span>TURNING TABLES<span>

He'd been using. A lot. John knew it. His eyes were sunken in and his skin was pale and yellow and he was so thin and he looked like shit.

John heard nothing. He felt nothing. He hated him. And he loved him. So much it hurt.

Countless times he'd wanted to throw out the stupid chair he was sitting in. To break the violin. To punch through the wall. To crush the skull. To rip up the wallpaper. To burn down the flat and sit there as the flames consumed him and he burned, burned, burned until he was dead.

John said nothing. He felt nothing. He hated him. And he loved him. So much it hurt.

He'd grabbed him, lifted him out of the chair, touched him everywhere with controlled fury, his fingertips burning with the_ alive alive holy fuck jesus oh jesus god jesus alive alive _and he'd thrown him on the ground and he'd wanted to hit him and hurt him and destroy him but he just kissed him so hard and bit his lips and made him bleed just so he could see and feel his life _god alive breathing alive here alive alive _and he'd held him so hard he'd bruised him and he'd ripped into him with his rage, violently grabbing and scratching at his body and ravaging him on the floor.

He'd made no sound other than tiny whimpers that John figured was because he was crying but he didn't care because he was crying too as he felt his body all around him, pressing into him, hard against him, digging his nails into him, pulling his hair, making him _real and alive and bleeding and crying and here and alive and real _and finally collapsing onto him and holding onto him so hard still, groaning and running his hands down his arms and_ scars and needles and razors and cuts _and had pressed his lips to his, heart pounding so hard he though he'd die and maybe he wanted to.

He was saying something then but John wasn't listening. He didn't want to hear him. Not yet. He'd put his hand on his lips and he'd held him so hard there like that with his arm around him and his hand on his face nearly crushing his skull_ just to crush the damn skull and let it splinter on the wall and burn and die I just wanted to die why did you do this to me god alive alive alive_ and he wanted to hurt him so badly to make him feel how bad it hurt him but he loved him so much.

John thought nothing. He felt nothing. He hated him. And he loved him. So much it hurt.

And then they were both crying and John was saying things he didn't hear and it was probably something stupid like asking why and asking how and telling him he looked so terrible and why did he hurt himself and why did he start using again and yes he wanted to die too and no he wouldn't leave god no he'd never leave and yes he loved him so much.

So much it hurt.

And the world spun and he felt sick and he felt happy and he felt angry and he didn't want anything but Sherlock.

And he was tired. He was so tired. Tired of feeling betrayed and lost and so alone and so afraid and he hated him so much and he loved him and now he could finally sleep.

And he slept.

And he held him.

And he trembled against him.

And then they faded away.

And the pills had worked.

And Mycroft had to explain to his hysterical _not dead John never dead no alive alive alive why god why no no no_ brother that his lover had killed himself.

And Sherlock hated himself.

And Sherlock hated, hated himself.

Sherlock felt nothing. He hated himself. And he loved John. So much it hurt. So much it hurt. It hurt so much.

* * *

><p>I know. I'm really very sorry. Really. Don't hate me.<p>

-NH


	10. Baths and Bedtime Stories

NOTE: I had a spectacular RP last night on Omegle (yeah, I do it. Come at me bro) with a wonderful, wonderful Mycroft and we had a great thing going. And if I didn't fall asleep I would have told the person that they were wonderful, wonderful and that I wish I had given them my email or something instead of losing them forever. So this is for you, whoever you are. It's not the exact chat log, but it's based off of what I can remember. Some of the things Mycroft says literally came right from the other person, since they stuck in my brain because of their brilliance. This is kind of a tribute of sorts. Plus I've been on a "Holmes-bros-love-each-other" kick. So yeah. Enjoy the stuff.

**Length: **1500-ish

**Pairing(s):** pre-Johnlock but no delivery, and brotherly loves

**Notable Content:** Bro feels, Holmes brothers being a bit OOC in that they aren't hurling abuse at each other. WARNING: TEXT FIC ONLY. I'm trying something new. Don't hate me for it.

* * *

><p><span>BATHS AND BEDTIME STORIES<span>

Mycroft? -SH

Yes, Sherlock. -MH

I can't sleep. -SH

You normally don't feel the need to inform me of things like this. Is something the matter? -MH

It's not the insomnia. It's something else... -SH

Care to share? -MH

Don't patronise me. But I think I love John. -SH

Well...I knew he'd be important to you. But this is a surprise. -MH

I can't sleep without thinking about him. And when I feel like that I have to wake up and look in his room and just make sure he's alright. -SH

That certainly sounds like love to me, Sherlock. Perhaps you should tell him? -MH

I couldn't. -SH

And why not? -MH

He's heterosexual, for one. For another, I doubt he feels the same. -SH

What makes you think so? I'm of the opinion that he cares about you a great deal, perhaps more than you think, anyway. -MH

Have you been spying on us again? -SH

Simply meeting up with him every now and then. Just to check up on you. -MH

So you kidnap my flat mate. Mature, Mycroft. -SH

Kidnapping only occasionally, brother. And as far as I can tell, he may not be so opposed to the idea. -MH

So you're saying that I should bring it up to him? -SH

I'm saying you should try. -MH

And so you think I should tell my heterosexual army doctor with PTSD flat mate that his self-diagnosed sociopathic cocaine addict flat mate might be in love with him and he'd like to sleep with him and maybe be...more than flat mates? -SH

That's absurd, Mycroft. And stupid. -SH

Perhaps if you said so differently. I don't think he'd write you off the way you think, Sherlock. -MH

I can't imagine him leaving me, Mycroft. I feel sick thinking about it. It makes me so... -SH

I believe you should try. Whether or not he coincides, he won't leave you. I know that for sure. -MH

You know that? Or you'll make sure of it? -SH

Sherlock, I believe both is implied. As I said, he cares about you a lot more than you give him credit for. -MH

...you know I've been clean for three months, Mycroft. -SH

That's very good, Sherlock. -MH

It's because I don't...I don't need it with him. He makes me feel ok. -SH

I'm glad. I'm very proud of you. -MH

Are you ever lonely, Mycroft? -SH

Sometimes. Why? -MH

Sometimes I think...never mind. It's trivial. -SH

You can say what you want to, you know. I won't be cross with you. -MH

Well sometimes I think of that too. I mean, sometimes it makes me wake up at night. -SH

To be alone is expected in my line of work, Sherlock. Sometimes I get lonesome, but it's a passing fancy. I assure you it doesn't bother me. -MH

I don't think that's true, Myc. -SH

I think it bothers you. It has to. -SH

I see... -MH

Because it hurts to be alone. I know. I didn't realize how badly it hurt until John. But now I know. And you shouldn't hurt like that. It's not fair. -SH

Sherlock...well I'm glad that you found someone to make you feel less lonely. I really am happy for you. But please don't worry about me. Though it is comforting that you still care. -MH

You say that as if I stopped. -SH

I just assumed you'd hate me eventually. -MH

You're insufferable and you meddle and you're otherwise a nuisance, but I never stopped caring about you. -SH

And you know, if you ever get lonely...like when you used to come into my room when I had nightmares...I can stay here with you until you fall asleep. -SH

...well thank you Sherlock. I assure you I won't bother you with it. -MH

If you need to, I won't be bothered. You did the same for me. -SH

Ah...well. You did have terrible nightmares... -MH

Perhaps I should let you be. Sentiment...not my area. -SH

No. No it's alright. It's...nice, talking to you like this. -MH

I thought of something the other day. It was so curious. -SH

Oh? What was it? -MH

Remember when I was very young, probably around four or five, and you used to give me baths? -SH

I remember. You'd always struggle with me because you never wanted to get in, and then you never wanted to get out. -MH

I'd fight you and fight you until you began to wash my hair. Remember you'd sing that pirate song for me while you washed my hair? -SH

Shiver My Timbers? -MH

Yes. You'd sing it for me and I'd let you wash me and you'd play pirate with me afterward. -SH

I remember, yes. -MH

I was washing my hair in the shower the other day and I began humming the tune, just subconsciously. I feel like I've done that before, but I only just caught myself doing it. -SH

Well I always liked singing it to you. I'm glad it made such an impression. -MH

What happened to us, Mycroft? -SH

Was it because of father? -SH

Did you think it was my fault? -SH

It wasn't my fault, was it? -SH

Sherlock...what happened with father...I was angry. I was so angry at him and at you and at the world. But it wasn't your fault father left. It never was. -MH

But I did make it happen. I made him shout at Mummy and Mummy cried and told him to leave and then she wouldn't speak to me. -SH

She was angry, Sherlock. You didn't do anything wrong. -MH

But you left me then. For school. And Mummy just...shut off. She would take care of me but she wouldn't speak to me or smile at me and somteimes she'd shout at me but otherwise she would just look at me and say nothing. -SH

And then you'd come home from school and she'd be so happy and she'd kiss you and hug you and I was so jealous of you. -SH

Surely you're familiar with the concept of projection? -MH

I am. -SH

I believe she was simply projecting her anger for father onto you. -MH

Because I exposed him? -SH

Possibly. She had no outlet other than you. But it wasn't your fault, Sherlock. You mustn't think that way. -MH

I ruined her. -SH

I ruined us. -SH

I should have never tried to discover the truth. -SH

Sherlock, it was father who was sneaking around behind Mummy's back. You didn't do anything wrong. You simply observed and you were right to. It's not your fault. -MH

He ruined us. -MH

I suppose. -SH

You still blame yourself. -MH

Sometimes. Can't be helped. -SH

I wish I could convince you otherwise. -MH

...remember when you came home from Cambridge that one holiday? And we got into such a big row and I said that I hated you? -SH

Yes. -MH

I don't hate you. -SH

I know, Sherlock. -MH

...John has nightmares about the war still. Sometimes I can hear him. He sits in bed and tries not to cry but he usually does. -SH

Do you ever go to him? -MH

I'm always afraid to. -SH

Maybe he needs to know that someone is there that loves him. Maybe that will help. I remember when I couldn't sleep I'd come check up on you and it'd make me feel better. -MH

Possibly. -SH

Wait, you used to check up on me? -SH

Of course I did. Often. -MH

How old were we? -SH

Oh, I'd been doing it since you were an infant. I don't think I stopped until you were about 8 or 9. -MH

So you...that's why you knew it was love. Before. Because you used to do it for me. And I do the same for John. -SH

Yes. -MH

...do you still love me Mycroft? All things considered, I mean. -SH

Of course I do. What do you mean all things considered? -MH

Just all the things that have happened between us. -SH

Ah. Well yes, I still love you, Sherlock. -MH

Right...me too. -SH

We were never good at this. -MH

No. It's much easier to call you a fat git. -SH

And it's easier to call you a petulant child. -MH

Do you have anything important to do tomorrow? -SH

Nothing of much importance, actually. I managed to get a lot of my work done this week. Why? -MH

Well it's rather late...and I was going to let you sleep...but if you'd like...I mean, would you come by the flat and have tea? John bought chocolate Digestives. -SH

I'd be delighted. -MH

Good...and if you'd like you could stay for the rest of the night. Just...if you wanted. -SH

Do you want me to stay? -MH

I...yes. I do. -SH

Then I'll stay. I'll always stay if you want me to, Sherlock. -MH

...or if I offer you biscuits. -SH

That too, brother. -MH

Fat git. -SH

I love you too, Sherlock. -MH

* * *

><p>Longer than I expected. Hope you liked it. Let me know how you felt about the format. Something I might try later too.<p>

-NH


	11. Snark and Sass

NOTE: Another text fic because they're easy and I feel guilty.

**Length: **573

**Pairing(s): **Johnlock

**Notable Content: **Baker Street Boys being domestic, exploding microwaves, fluff, some sassy!John, along with silly "consulting boyfriends" nonsense.

* * *

><p><span>SNARK AND SASS<span>

John -SH

Yes? -JW

Drop by Tesco on the way home. We need food. -SH

I did the shopping yesterday. We have food. -JW

You didn't buy anything good. And I'm hungry. -SH

Stop the presses. My boyfriend is about to eat something. -JW

John. -SH

Fine fine. What do you need? I bought your chocolate Digestives. -JW

I need FOOD John. Food. -SH

Sherlock, if you don't tell me what you want then I'm not buying anything. -JW

Corn. -SH

Corn? -JW

Yes, John. Corn. It's a vegetable that grows in stalks and it's usually yellow. It comes tinned most of the time. You can also dehydrate the kernels and pop them. Popular snack for seeing a movie, apparently. -SH

Do you want me to go to Tesco? -JW

Yes. -SH

Then stop being snarky. Why do you want corn. -JW

I'd like to make some Spanish rice. The recipe requires corn. -SH

You...you want to cook. -JW

Yes. -SH

Why? -JW

Because...I'm hungry, John. I thought you followed me on this. -SH

No no. It's just...you don't cook. Ever. -JW

I cook. -SH

Toast and microwaving left overs doesn't count. -JW

I cooked soup. When you were sick. -SH

You -microwaved- the soup. In the can. Which caused our microwave to explode. Which did not help when I was sick. At all. -JW

I didn't think you were still upset about that. I told you I'd pay for a new one. -SH

Alright alright. So corn. Anything else? -JW

Red peppers. And onions. -SH

Okay. That all? -JW

Believe so. -SH

Okay. I'll be home around 1800. Try not to destroy anything. -JW

I'm only cooking. It's just chemistry, really. -SH

Yeah, chemistry. That's why I'm fearful. -JW

John, I'm not a child. -SH

Sometimes I forget, love. -JW

Rude, John. I was going to make you some dinner, too. -SH

Not sure I'd like to. Could catch an eyeball in there somewhere. -JW

Sassy. -SH

Sorry? -JW

You're being sassy. -SH

I'm being...sassy? -JW

Sassy. Yes. Derivative of the old English "saucy," meaning impudent, flippant, and sometimes sexually suggestive in a light hearted manner. -SH

Thanks Webster. Still, never thought I'd be called that. Much less by you. -JW

I'm snarky, you're sassy. It happens. -SH

Snassy. -JW

What? -SH

Snarky and sassy. Snassy. Like snazzy. -JW

Right... -SH

Or sarky. Or snarkassy. Oh, I like that one. Snarkassy. Just say it out loud. Snarkassy. -JW

Stop it John. -SH

Look at that man over there in the bright pink peacoat! He looks pretty snarkassy. -JW

John, I'm confused and angry. -SH

Why, Mrs. Hudson, that scandalous dress makes you look rather snarkassy tonight! -JW

John. Stop. -SH

Lestrade called. He said that Donovan was being a bit snarkassy today. Perhaps she's on her cycle. -JW

John, that's inappropriate. And you're being ridiculous. -SH

Sherlock Holmes: World's Only Consulting Detective. Expert in Snarkassy Behaviour. -JW

I'm not cooking your dinner. And I'm sleeping on the couch. -SH

You love me. -JW

Can't imagine where you get that idea. -SH

Alright alright. I'll buy your ingredients, ok? And then you can make dinner. -JW

Alright. -SH

Love you, 'Lock. :) -JW

Love you too. -SH

Oh and Sherlock? -JW

Yes -SH

After dinner... -JW

What -SH

Let's do something snarkassy. ;) -JW

You're insane. See you at 18:00 -SH

Love you mean it. -JW

Insane. -SH

:D -JW


	12. Because

NOTE: I was stricken with a great sense of inspiration, and it's ten to midnight. And I don't even care, because I owe you guys SOME KIND OF UPDATE so here have this little angsty-fluff thingy. Bit lengthy, so be warned.

**Length:**2029

**Pairing(s):**Johnlock

**Notable Content:**Mentions of child death, fluff, angst, slight OOC-ness, and first person POV via Sherlock.

BECAUSE

"Are you alright?"

You're clearly not. You're sitting on the bed, you look angry; you're tearing off your socks like they've offended your feet. Something happened today, at the surgery.

"John?"

Did you get fired? Did Sarah get tired of you leaving work for me? You don't have to, you know. Leave work for me. But you do. I like when you come home early.

"I'm fine," you snap at me. You know it won't hurt me, when you're angry and you snap at me. Because you know that I understand. You're upset. Talk to me, John. You can talk to me.

"Clearly you're not."

I move to sit next to you, you don't seem to mind, though you're tense and you sigh heavily and you seem tired. Are you tired? We can sleep. You look like you need sleep. There's heaviness in your eyes.

"Sherlock, please." You're using that tone, the softness in your voice when you want me to stop trying to figure you out. Because I do have to try to figure you out. You confuse me. I like it. It's ok.

"We don't have to talk about it, if you don't want to." My attempts at comforting you are not very successful, most of the time. My command over making myself approachable is nil, usually. But you understand, don't you? You know that I want you to be ok. You know that.

"I don't feel like talking right now, 'Lock," you say. You pull off the rest of your clothes, and I just sit and watch you. I notice your shoulder looks swollen—stress makes your injury flare up. Do you want me to massage it for you? I know you like it when I do. But perhaps not now. Not while you're upset. Just tell me why you're upset. Tell me what happened today.

You crawl into bed and you heave another sigh, rubbing your eyes. I can't deduce you very often, you know. It feels wrong. I'd rather have you talk to me. After all we've been through, how far we've come, I still would rather you tell me than figure you out. I like listening to you.

"Do you want to sleep?" I ask, though I know the answer. You won't be able to sleep. You're upset and stressed and your shoulder hurts.

"Dunno."

I nod, as if I understand. It's hard for me, to try to think of how to comfort you. I wish you'd tell me what's wrong, but I don't want to push you. I know you don't like it when I do that, and I know that you'd get even more upset if I tried to deduce it. I probably could, you know. Maybe I should.

"I think I'm going to quit my job."

I blink. You want to quit your job? That'd be nice. That way you'd be able to sleep more, and stay with me during the day, and have a lay in on the week days when I don't have cases and all I want is you—

No, no. This isn't good. You love your job. You love helping people, because that's what you do. You thrive on the fortune of others. I love that about you, do you know that? I think you do.

"Why?"

Of course I know why. Something, whatever it was, something made you realize that sometimes it isn't worth it. That waking up every morning to do what you love perhaps may not be enough. It can't fix things, not always. Maybe I'm wrong. I'm rubbish at things like this.

"I can't do it anymore," you say softly. "The stress…I can't handle it anymore." Your voice is low and sad and hoarse. You need to sleep. I hum in response, because I'm not sure if you want me to ask why again, or if you just want to try to sleep now. I'll turn off the lamp. It'll make you feel better.

I reach over and click it off, and I can hear you shifting against the pillows. You won't sleep yet, no, but you'll stay up and we'll talk or maybe we'll just lie here together. That's ok with me. Either one is ok with me.

It's quiet for a while, probably because I don't really know what to say or how to say it, and I can hear you breathing softly, but every now and again you move. You're rotating your shoulder. It's hurting you. Let me massage it for you. You don't have to talk to me; I'll just make the pain stop.

I'm good at massages, you once told me. I know where the pressure points are, so obviously I am, but I didn't say that when you told me. I just kept massaging you, because you needed it.

"A twelve year old boy died today," you say out of the darkness. Ah. Of course. You tried to save him—probably an accident or some terminal injury—and it was too late. Did the family blame you? Did they cry? Did you have to tell them?

"Oh."

You blame yourself when things like this happen. I know you do. You shouldn't. It's not your fault. Surely you know this. Of course you know this. Maybe you don't.

"He'd lost so much blood by the time we got him in," you continue quietly, as if saying it too loudly will offend someone. "Nearly two litres already. I couldn't believe he was still hanging on for consciousness…"

"I see…"

"We worked on him for so long…well, maybe it wasn't long. I dunno," you continue.

Perception of time is usually altered by adrenaline. Judging by the loss of the blood, the youth of the patient, the urgency of the situation, you probably didn't have but a few minutes under your belt before you lost him, anyway.

"We tried everything," you say softly. "But we just couldn't…" I look at you in the dark. Your head is low, you're looking at your hands. "God…the look on her face."

The mother. She was there. You had to tell her that her son was dead. I don't know what to say. I just watch you.

"I can't do this anymore," you say, your voice cracking. You clench your fists and give a shaking sigh. Are you going to cry? Why are you going to cry? Don't cry, John. It wasn't your fault. Of course you have to know that. You were doing your job. You couldn't have saved everyone. These things happen. People die. It's unfortunate, but…

"You blame yourself," I say, because it's true and because I don't really know what else to say. You look at me.

"She said I killed him," you whisper. "She looked at me and she said that I killed her son. That he was dead because I couldn't save him."

Anger is a common reaction with grief. You shouldn't take it so personally. Obviously she needed to rationalize the situation so that the tragedy would seem justifiable. Her judgment was impaired, she wasn't reacting with normal mental stability.

I don't say any of this, because I know I shouldn't. I just look at you. I don't know what my face looks like.

"I mean, what the hell am I supposed to say to that?" you go on, voice continuing to break here and there. Please don't cry, John. Don't cry. "I swear…I just…I tried so hard and in the end I couldn't tell that woman that her boy wasn't dead on a slab. And my hands weren't covered in her baby's blood. And he wasn't going to be lost forever."

You're crying now, aren't you? You're crying, because you feel guilty. That woman made you feel guilty. I suddenly feel a slight flare of anger. People are so stupid. You're a doctor, you're just doing your job. You can't—

"You can't save everyone, John," I say, perhaps more harshly than I intend. You shake your head, wipe your eyes, sniff a bit. I hate seeing you hurt so much, John. Please, just lay your head down. Sleep. I'll hold you if you want. I'll let you play with my hair. I'll make sure your shoulder isn't stiff in the morning.

"I don't expect you to understand, Sherlock," you say, and I know you don't mean to be caustic, so I take no offense. "But I just…I can't live with that every day. Knowing that I can't save everyone, no matter how hard I try. I love my job, I love what I do, but at the end of the day, I can't save them. I can try so hard and I can't…"

You break off and you give a small, quiet sob. I feel my chest tighten. Please don't be sad, John. I don't like it when you're sad.

I don't know how to comfort you, but I do what I can, what I know you appreciate when I do it. So I scoot closer to you and I wrap you in an embrace, and I press my lips to your hair. And I tell you the truth. Because I don't like telling you trivial things, things that don't matter. I tell you what truly, truly means something to you.

"You save my life every day," I say. "If no one else, John, you save me."

You tense a bit, and I can hear your breath hitch. Did that make it worse? Are you even more sad? It's all I have to offer you, John. Proof that I need you, acknowledgement that you mean everything to me. Truth.

"I love you so much," you whisper as you cry softly into my chest. I rub your back, gently caress your shoulder, massage it gently a bit. I kiss your head. You know it's true. You understand. You always know what to expect from me, and you're always grateful for it.

"Are you going to be alright?" I ask, because I really don't know. Your tears seem to have calmed, but I don't know if you're going to have nightmares tonight or not. I hate when you have nightmares. You kick and scream and sweat and shake and it frightens me, because it reminds me of how sad you are, and how often you hide it.

"I think so," you say, sniffing and pulling away a bit. You smile at me, wiping your eyes. You're gorgeous. "Just needed to let it out, I guess."

I nod.

"Crying really does help," I say. "It alleviates tension by releasing certain hormones and endorphins in the brain in order to counteract high pressure areas of stress."

You laugh a bit. You think it's funny when I do things like that. I don't really know why, but you say it's "endearing." It doesn't matter; I like making you laugh.

"Yes, it helps," you agree, kissing my nose and wrapping your arms around me as we settle back beneath the blankets. I rest my head beneath your chin—it makes me feel safe when I'm like this, curled up in your arms. Your fingers are in my hair; do you know that that makes me sleepy? I bet you do.

"John?" I ask quietly. You respond with a gentle syllable that makes your chest rumble; a soft "hm" that makes me smile for some reason.

"I love you too," I say, because I hardly ever do so. I can hear the smile in your voice when you speak.

"I know you do, 'Lock," you say softly, kissing my head. You pause a moment. "Thank you."

I don't know if I should say "you're welcome" or not, because I don't know what you're thanking me for. Either way, I nod gently and whisper "always," because no matter what, I'll always be here. That much is certain. You can cry in the dark, we can kiss and touch and sleep soundly each night, and you can quit your job if you like, it's fine. Because I'll be here.

"Good night, love," you say. I close my eyes. You're ok now. I've fixed you. I smile.

"Good night," I say, because it was, after all.


	13. John, I'm Only Dancing

**Length: **898

**Pairing(s): **Johnlock-ish but no delivery, and some Sherlock/Irene but very light

**Notable Content: **It's short, it's weird, I don't know if I like it. Takes place after S2E1. And yes, that's a reference to good old Mr. Bowie, friends. Bless him.

* * *

><p><span>JOHN, I'M ONLY DANCING<span>

Sometimes he misses her.

Sometimes he wakes in the middle of the night—when he actually sleeps—and thinks about her. He doesn't feel any particular sense of longing, per se; he doesn't feel pain or guilt or _saudade_. He simply thinks about her. He thinks about the colour of her lipstick, the sharpness of her gaze, the sting of the riding crop and the strange chill he had gotten when her lips had only briefly grazed his cheek.

He wakes on this cold night, the whispers of her name in his memory, the ghosting sensation of her hands on his shoulders. _ Shh, it's ok, I'm just returning your coat…_

It feels like a dream. Sometimes he isn't sure if it was or wasn't. He knows though, he knows it was real.

The Woman had been his rival, but only because she was his equal, in nearly every way. She was quick, precise, keen, razor sharp. She was steady. She was mysterious. Enigmatic, perplexing, fascinating, gone.

She was gone.

Sometimes he misses her.

And then sometimes, on these nights, he'll wake in the cold, he'll wrap up in his sheet, and he stalk down the hall, up the steps, into John's room.

John wouldn't like it if he knew that Sherlock watched him sleep. So Sherlock doesn't tell him.

Sherlock watches John sleep because John makes Sherlock forget about her. He isn't sure if he wants to forget about her, but when he misses her, when he feels the slightest tug on his heartstrings, he wants John. He needs to see John, to know that John is there.

He doesn't pay attention to why he feels this way, or how often. He doesn't find it interesting. But sometimes he misses her, and because of this, he wants John.

John doesn't like her.

John doesn't like how she hurt him, how she lied and cheated and hurt him. Sherlock won't admit it, but John knows that she hurt him. John thinks about her sometimes, when the flat is quiet and he happens to let his mind wander. It worries him, when he thinks of her. He wonders of Sherlock thinks of her. Even though he won't admit it, John doesn't want Sherlock to think of her anymore.

Very seldom, John will wake up and think about her, about how worried he was when Sherlock seemed to be…interested in her. She was, in fact, interesting, but John didn't want her to be. It's selfish, but it wakes him on cold nights.

On these cold nights, John will tumble out of bed, frustrated, and stumble down the hall, down the stairs, and peep his head in Sherlock's doorway. Sherlock hardly sleeps, but when he does, he's nice to watch.

This cold night, John wakes, and he thinks of her, and he doesn't like it. For some reason, though, when he thinks of her, he wants Sherlock.

Sherlock hears John's door open, and he holds his sheet tighter, waiting. He hears the creak of the floorboards—John is heavy footed—and his heart skips a beat. He turns and, quietly, makes his way back into his room, into the bed, curls under the covers, and waits, frozen.

But John opens his door and sighs heavily and makes his way, like he always does, down the hall, down the steps, just outside Sherlock's door.

Sherlock knows he's there.

John presses his hand flat on the wood.

Sherlock feels a shiver trickle down his spine, the same shiver that he'd felt when she touched his hand, and when he'd felt the tiny drum beat of her heart against his fingertips…

John opens the door, and, after hesitating a moment, takes a step inside the room. Another step. And another.

He stands next to the bed, to Sherlock's back, watching him breathe, watching him sleep.

But Sherlock seldom sleeps. And tonight he doesn't.

John, then, against his otherwise better judgment, pulls back the covers a bit and slides between them, spooning Sherlock with some kind of almost repellent hesitance until he finally relaxes against him, slowly snaking an arm around him, pulling him close.

They lay there, quiet, the sound of their breaths filling the space between them, until John speaks.

"I know you're awake," he said quietly, his lips ghosting the back of Sherlock's neck for just a brief moment. It's electric. Sherlock says nothing. He simply licks his lips and swallows, exhaling a tense breath that he didn't know he was holding.

"Listen, I'm not going anywhere, yeah?" John says softly, soothingly, and his voice lulls the detective into a rather swiftly coming stupor. "I'm going to protect you. No one's going to hurt you again…"

"Ok," Sherlock breathes, because he believes him, and because he likes how this feels. He knows it's a one-off. He knows this may not ever happen again. And if it does, well that'd be perfectly fine. And if it didn't, well, that'd be alright too. He settles into John's embrace, closing his eyes. It's alright.

And the sound of John's voice, and the breaths that continue to brush the hairs on the back of his neck, and the smell of home and the callouses on John's fingers make the fading images of red lipstick and leather and skin tight dresses finally dissipate in Sherlock's mind.

Because sometimes he misses her.

But not tonight.


End file.
